5. Tyson

Chapter 5

Tyson

W e were supposed to meet at Pearl’s the next day, but I needed more time alone. Seven days passed since the incident at the Benefield Building. Seven days of drowning myself in meetings and photoshoots, signing contracts, and approving designs, anything to keep Autumn off my mind. The workaholic in me needed the distraction, but it wasn’t enough. The image of her in that black dress, standing at her door, asking me why I lied about being okay, played repeatedly in my head.

Now, at eleven-thirty p.m., I stood in my office at the Benefield Building reviewing contractor estimates. The night was quiet except for industrial fans running throughout the space. My phone buzzed and a text from Autumn lit up my screen: “Still at the building?”

“Yes. Reviewing estimates,” I replied.

“Coming up.”

My heart kicked against my ribs. Minutes later, she walked through my office door carrying a paper bag that smelled like heaven.

“Pearl’s sent food,” she said. “Grandma Rose insists you’re working too hard.”

“Did you tell her I was here?”

“No, but she knows you,” she set the bag on my desk. “When I stopped by for dinner, she packed this up and said, ‘Take this to that boy. He’s probably still working.’”

I smiled at Rose’s intuition. “What else did she say?”

Autumn unpacked containers of Rose’s famous gumbo and cornbread. “That I should make sure you eat.”

“Is that why you’re here? To feed me?”

“Actually, I came to help sort through the student artwork we salvaged.” She pushed a container toward me. “But first, you need to eat something that isn’t coffee.”

I accepted the food, watching as she settled into the chair across from my desk, tucking one leg under her. She’d changed from her work clothes into leggings and an old Northwestern sweatshirt—my sweatshirt, the one she’d stolen years ago. Her hair fell in loose curls around her face and as usual her beauty struck me in a way that warmed my heart and strengthened my dick.

“Have you heard anything from the contractors?” she asked between bites.

“They can start next week, but we need to catalog everything first.” I dipped the cornbread in gumbo. “The insurance adjusters want detailed documentation.”

“Then let’s get to work.” She stood, grabbing her container. “We can eat while we sort.”

I followed her to the large storage room where we moved the salvaged artwork. The space was lined with metal shelves, most still empty, waiting to be filled with student pieces once the renovation was complete. Boxes of artwork sat on tables, waiting to be organized.

“I made a preliminary inventory,” she said, pulling out her tablet. “But we need to check each piece for water damage.”

We worked systematically through the boxes for the next hour, carefully examining each painting. I handled the heavy lifting while she documented everything, her fingers flying across the screen as she updated her database.

“This reminds me of when we had to reorganize the entire art department storage room in college,” she marked off another box.

“Because someone knocked over an entire shelf of clay sculptures.”

“That wasn’t my fault! You startled me.”

“You were dancing with headphones on in a room full of breakable art.”

She threw a piece of bubble wrap at me. “You weren’t supposed to be there at midnight.”

“Neither were you.” I caught the bubble wrap. “But you needed help finishing your project, so...”

“So, you came.” She smiled softly. “You always do.”

The moment hung between us, with insinuation stirring her words. I cleared my throat. “These portfolios need to go on the top shelf. Hand them to me.”

She gathered the large black cases while I positioned the ladder. She passed them up one by one, our fingers brushing with each exchange. From my height on the ladder, I could see the graceful line of her neck as she tilted her head back to watch me place each portfolio.

“Careful with that one,” she called up. “It’s Denise Jordan’s work—the girl Marcus helped with the copyright case.”

My grip tightened on the portfolio. “Right.”

“These kids are incredible, Ty. Wait until you see—” She stepped backward, stumbling over a box.

I reacted, climbing down and steadying her with an arm around her waist, pulling her tightly against my chest. She grabbed my shoulders, and our proximity had her face inches from mine.

“You okay?” My voice came out rough.

She nodded but didn’t let go. “Just clumsy.”

“You’ve always been clumsy.” I should have released her, but my arm stayed locked around her waist. “I also have memories of you falling into the campus fountain.”

“You pushed me.”

“I did not. You were walking backward, talking about some painting?—”

“The Monet exhibition at the Art Institute?—”

“And you didn’t see the fountain,” I chuckled. “But I jumped in after you.”

“Because my portfolio went in with me.” Her fingers played with the collar of my shirt, probably without realizing it. “You saved my sketches.”

“I saved you.” The words came out softer than intended.

Her phone chimed, but I was still under her spell. We stepped apart as she checked the message.

“It’s Marcus,” she said. “He had flowers delivered to my office. He wants to know if I got them.”

The distance between us suddenly felt like miles. “That’s... thoughtful of him.”

She didn’t respond, but our eyes met.

“We should finish the inventory.” I climbed back up the ladder. “What’s next?”

She hesitated before picking up another portfolio. We worked in silence for a while, the easy warmth of earlier replaced by something more complicated.

“These need to be labeled,” she said eventually, holding up a stack of manila folders.

I came down from the ladder, taking some of the folders. We sat on the floor, backs against the wall, sorting through student information. Our shoulders touched as we worked, and I was hyper-aware of every point of contact.

“Do you remember what you wanted to be when we were kids?” she asked suddenly.

“A basketball player.”

“Before that.”

I smiled, remembering. “A painter. Like you.”

“You weren’t bad, either.” She bumped my shoulder. “Your landscapes were good.”

“They were terrible. But you never said so.”

“Because you never gave up. Even when things were hard.” She looked at me. “That’s what I’ve always admired about you.”

The sincerity in her voice made my chest tight. “I learned that from you. Watching you fight for your dreams, no matter what anyone said.”

“We fought together.” She rested her head against the wall, staring at me. “Still are.”

“Always will.” I reached over and squeezed her hand, meaning it to be quick and friendly. But her fingers interlaced with mine, and neither of us let go.

“Art means so much to me. All those hours I spent sketching in your grandmother’s kitchen while she cooked.”

“And somehow, never learning how to make her sweet potato pie.”

“I was distracted,” she smiled. “You kept stealing my pencils.”

“You kept stealing my heart.” The words slipped out before I could catch them.

Her relaxed fingers stilled around mine and I waited for her to laugh it off like we always did when one of us stepped too close to the truth. Instead, she met my eyes. “Ty...”

The nickname hit me in the chest. She only called me that in moments like this - quiet moments when the walls between us turned paper-thin.

“We should check the climate control system,” I said, breaking the tension and changing the subject. “Make sure this room stays at the right temperature and humidity for the artwork.”

She nodded, letting me retreat to safer ground. I moved to the control panel, pretending to study readings I’d already memorized while my heart rate settled.

“The contractor Marcus recommended called back,” she said after a moment.

“We don’t need them.” My voice came out sharper than intended.

“They could start tomorrow. Get this space ready faster than?—”

“I said no.” I turned to face her. “This is our project, Autumn. Yours and mine. We don’t need outside help.”

“Is that what this is about? You’re worried about Marcus being involved?”

“I’m worried about a lot of things.” I stepped closer. “Like you working yourself to exhaustion. Like these kids losing their chance to show their art. Like?—”

Losing you to Marcus.

Her phone chimed again. This time, she didn’t check it. We were locked onto each other, our eyes never wavering.

“It might be important,” I said, though I wanted to detain her there at this moment.

“I want to know what you were going to say. Like what?” We continued to stare, and I was two seconds away from pulling her into the heat of my mouth when I spoke again.

“We should finish the inventory.”

She stared at me, almost bewildered, but instead of responding she sighed and nodded.

We worked in comfortable silence for a while, but something had shifted. Every accidental touch sparked vigor, and every glance at one another carried an exchange.

Around two in the morning, I found her asleep on a stack of portfolios, just like in college. I draped my jacket over her shoulders and sat watching her breathe, remembering all the reasons I’d never crossed this line before.

But as I carried her to my car to drive her home, her body warm and trusting against my chest, I wondered if those reasons still mattered. If some risks were worth taking, and some lines worth crossing.

She stirred as I buckled her seatbelt. “Ty?”

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

“Stay with me tonight?” Her voice was soft with exhaustion. “Like when we were kids?”

My heart clenched. How often had we fallen asleep in the same bed, pretending we were just friends? How many mornings had I woken up wanting more?

I drove through empty streets, stealing glances at her sleeping form. By the time we reached her building, she was fully asleep again. I carried her up to her apartment, using the key she’d given me years ago.

Inside, I laid her on her bed, removing her shoes but leaving her in my hoodie. As I pulled the blanket over her, she caught my hand.

“Don’t go,” she mumbled.

I peeled off my shoes with the back of my heel, pulled my shirt over my head, and crawled into bed behind her. She fell into a restful slumber easily, yet my mind whirled with thoughts of what could be.